Spirit Hunter (20 page)

White Swan shakes her head. “Even if you saw your closest kinsman now, Asena, you’d not see his soul. You let the power rot within you. You have betrayed yourself.”

She is right. I hear Tulan’s last words to me:
Your powers will remain strong only if you live by truth alone. Heed your wolf or lose him. Trust him. Never forget: the spirits only guide those willing to be led.
I did not live by truth alone. I lied to Baba about Swiftarrow. I refused to listen to my wolf.

And the truth is: I wanted Swiftarrow when I have known since the day I was born that love is forbidden to a shaman. So it has always been.

“And neither was my brother the cause of it,” White Swan goes on, “no, it is a custom among some of the tribes that the shaman is forbidden to love. But it is only a custom, nothing more, just as men of the west wear their hair long and braided, and those of the eastern tribes do not. Love only makes our souls grow, Asena. I love a man very deeply, and yet my powers are intact.

“Asena, your wolf-guide stopped coming because you would not heed his warnings: you put yourself and others in danger by not telling your kinsmen about my brother. But even had you not lied, do you really think they would have been able to stop Swiftarrow? He is Shaolin. You are not to be blamed for Swiftarrow’s deeds. No, it is rage and bitterness that nearly killed your wolf-guide, Asena. It is rage and bitterness that have eaten away the rest of your powers. That is why you do not see my spirit-horse.”

“No,” I say. I can’t breathe. I can’t bear it. “Leave me alone.”

I run.

In the alley, I crouch in the shadow of the wall, breathing so hard the gate-guards can most likely hear. I do not care. I wrap my arms around my knees, shoulders heaving. The tears chill my face as they fall. I am so cold, but it does not matter. Was the massacre at Claw Rock really not my fault after all?
Could I not have stopped it?
The rush of relief is checked by remembering what I have lost: my powers, my great gift – and my kin. I close my eyes and see that little boy with an arrow in his back, dead. My whole body aches with sorrow. I want to sleep; I must lie down, even if it be here in this rain-puddled street. I do not care.

I am back on the shore of the Summer Lake. Shaman Tulan is waiting for me, sitting beneath his favourite mulberry tree as he gazes out across the waters to the white-shouldered mountains on the far side of our valley. A fire smoulders at his feet. Grey smoke drifts with the wind. I walk towards him, sick with shame, for I must tell Tulan what I have done, that I have allowed myself to be eaten up by hate and rage. He will be so sorry.

As I get nearer, he looks at me, but Tulan does not smile or speak. His eyes do seem to burn me. The wind gets up, stirring his long grey hair, rippling the water’s skin, rustling through the mulberry leaves. I sit down beside my old master, and Tulan reaches into the leather bag at his belt and takes out the herb pouch. Wordless, he holds a spray of thyme in the flames till the dried-out leaves glow crackling red and the smell burns my throat. Here’s the tug in my belly; I’m leaving my body behind once more.

“Come,” says Shaman Tulan. “We must go travelling.”

We walk side by side through a silent forest, my old master and I. Sunlight slants down between the larches. Starflower vines hang from the branches of silver-trunked birch trees. The trees thin out and we come to a clearing. A dark shape lies in the middle.

“Go,” says Shaman Tulan. “See what you have done.”

I walk closer. The dark shape is a dead wolf, a thin, starved creature. The poor beast has died alone. Tears burn my cheeks as I kneel beside him. I reach out and as I lay my hand on the wiry fur, I feel the pulse of life beneath, very faint, but beating all the same.

“What shall I do now?” I turn to Shaman Tulan but he is walking away through the forest. As I watch my master go, he seems to stoop less and move with greater ease, so that now that he is nearly hidden by sunlit trees, he looks like a much younger man, loping along without a care.

I will never see him again.

I lie down beside the wolf and I weep.

A voice comes out of the darkness: “Wake! What fool’s game is this, lying in the street like a drunk?”

It is only Swiftarrow. He grips my shoulders, crouching at my side, eyes fixed on mine. Night has fallen. I ache with cold.

“Where have you been?” he hisses. “My sister said you left her hours since. She said you needed to make a journey. What in the name of Heaven has happened?” He pauses, staring. “Why do you look at me so?”

I cannot tell him I am trying to see his spirit-horse. I wait for the silvery flicker of a tossing mane, just a glimpse. But there is still nothing. Swiftarrow reaches out and takes my hand.

“You are so cold.” He draws me close and joy floods through me, a line of brightness through misery. At last, at last. We hold each other, Swiftarrow and I. It feels as if we have always done so.

“What is wrong?” he asks, his breath warm against my neck. His hair tickles my face.

How to say it? “It is nothing,” I tell him. “Just something that I lost.”

“Do not cry,” Swiftarrow whispers, the anger quite gone from his voice. “Don’t cry, Asena.” His hair smells of wood-smoke. He grips my hand in both of his and holds it to his lips, breathing the heat of his body into mine. Swiftarrow. I have been given the gift I ached after for so long, but another is taken from me, gone for ever. I was a shaman. I was born with an extra soul. Now I am nothing. Even if White Swan speaks the truth, and the deaths at the Gathering were not my fault, I cannot bear this. Getting to my feet, I run, leaving Swiftarrow to follow me. He won’t catch me this time. Autumn Moon has taught me too well.

For once, I outwit him.

S
wiftarrow waited outside the great chamber, listening to music and voices within. The door opened and the servant Jin came out, holding a wine-jug. He bowed.

“You are very late, young master. I understand that Lord Fang most particularly wished you to attend this gathering.”

Swiftarrow did not bother to reply, but just walked past him into the chamber, past the throng of purple-robed courtiers seated at the table with their concubines, and knelt before his father.

“Lord Fang, the wayward child appears,” someone called out, braying with laughter that echoed around the chamber. Lamps flickered, casting shadows across painted faces; golden light puddled on the floor.

She had not returned to the Forbidden Garden. Where was she? Autumn Moon did not know. At last he had held Asena in his arms, and now she was gone, fled into the streets. Was she seeking only comfort when I held her? What tormented her? Fear? Was it the loss of her kinsmen, an old wound burst open by being among the Tribes again?

“Where in the Realm of Freezing Hell have you been, Fang Shiyu?” Lord Fang spoke with his usual languor, but Swiftarrow did not miss the iron edge to his voice. “Come, sit by me. Take a drink. No one at your temple shall find out.”

Swiftarrow took his place on the couch and as Lord Fang had spoken very quietly into his ear, so low that no one else could hear above the drunken clamour, he realized that his father was as clear-headed as an abbot. How often had Lord Fang appeared drunk when in fact he was not?

“I do not wish to explain this again: you must at least seem a dutiful son of this house, even if you are not,” Lord Fang said. “Now tell me, where have you been?”

Sometimes the best lie is closest to the truth.
Swiftarrow took the cup of wine from his father’s hands. “O lord,” he said, “I’m in love with a girl, that’s all, but she won’t see me. I am sore wounded by love and I did not hear the eighth bell, nor the ninth or tenth. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

He raised the porcelain cup to his lips and drank, hot wine searing down his throat, burning his eyes.

Lord Fang laughed. “You are forgiven, but only if she is the proper kind of wench. I learned too late the dangers of beautiful barbarian girls.”

More laughter rippled around the chamber, and Swiftarrow said, “My father is too kind.”

Swiftarrow knew he had been given a warning; yet it came too late.

When Lord Fang spoke next, so quietly no one else could hear, the laughter was gone from his voice. “My son, it is time for you and me to make a move in the game.”

Swiftarrow drew in a long breath. “O Father, I am ready to play.”

T
he courtyard is quiet and the stars are out, the moon a cold white ball hanging in the sky. Is everyone sleeping? I pause, listening, eyes shut. No: I hear four people breathing deep and slow, one faster. There is someone awake. Autumn Moon comes walking out of the dark hall.

“Swiftarrow was afraid for your safety,” she tells me. “He came here and said you ran from him, greatly troubled, that you insisted on being alone. Asena, you must both take care. Such violent passions will only lead to pain. I should have forbidden him from bringing a girl his own age to join us.” She sighs. “But then we would not have you, so in truth I am glad he did.”

I shrug and look at the ground. I sense her watching me.

After a few moments have passed, Autumn Moon speaks again: “What is wrong, Asena? Is it your task for the Empress? With each day, I expect Brother Snake-eye to return with word from the Abbot. Surely he will be here soon, and then I pray we shall be released from her spider’s web. Meanwhile, we must all have patience.”

I shake my head, unable to form the words. Tears fall, burning my face. How can I explain to Autumn Moon what I have lost?

“Asena, it will be all right.” She steps towards me, holding out her arms, patting my back with clumsy kindness.

How will anything be all right? As if losing my family and home were not enough, now I have lost my wolf-guide for ever, too. I will surely die when I kill the Empress, and I must ride to the World Below without him on a spirit-horse crippled by rage and revenge. I must leave Swiftarrow behind. I don’t want to.

“Help me,” I beg her. “Please.”

Autumn Moon releases me, stepping back a few paces. “Come,” she says. “I will be your pain, and you shall battle it.” She bows her head and I bow, too, taking a long breath. I must be calm. I must be ready. Without any other warning, Autumn Moon pounces at me faster than a scorpion’s tail rising to sting. I run like a monkey up the wall, but she is here to meet me. Our hands meet and we push away, grabbing each other, twisting, releasing; wolf, dragon, swallow.

The red light of dawn spills across the courtyard, setting fire to the bronze bowl resting on the shrine. Autumn Moon and I have been sparring all night. Hours have slipped into nothing – gone as we travelled the Way together. The steady beat of Hano chopping mushrooms and onions for broth drifts from the cook-room.

Autumn Moon steps away, bowing once more. She smiles at me, her thin, bald-headed face bright with the joy of true peace. She reminds me of a baby bird fallen from the nest, but she has the strength of an eagle. “Come,” she says, “the rest of them shall be ready for fast-break by now. Let us join them. We must eat, after all.”

I bow back, hoping she cannot see my true thoughts. Yes, I too found peace this night, but nothing else has changed. If I do not kill the Empress of the T ’ang, the Horse Tribes will never be safe. I have given up my wolf-guide as lost; I know my spirit is broken.

It does not matter.
I
do not matter. Soon I will be gone from this world, but my people will ride free under the great, stretching skies of the steppe for ever.

I
crouch outside the firelit tent, hands clenched into fists, trying to keep my fingers warm. Spit pools in my mouth at the smell of cooked meat drifting from the smoke-hole. Smoke rises, too, thick and pale against the darkness. Flakes of ash hang on the air like the petals of a flower: it is a windless night. I hear someone moving about within, a woman’s voice, the cry of a child.

I wish Swiftarrow were here at my side but then he would see how afraid I am, and I could not bear the shame. Even though I have chosen to kill the Empress, chosen to die, the truth of it keeps creeping up behind me me: I love him.

This is the right place: I have watched it long enough to see who comes in and who goes out, but the one I seek is not here yet. Because the tent is lit from within, I am able see the woman moving about inside, just a shadow. She bends low, picking something up, then straightens. I hear a thin cry and soft soothing words. The woman is holding a child. Her shadow wobbles, grows smaller. She has gone. In my mind, I see her walking swiftly through the camp with the child bundled in deerskin and rugs.

I still cannot see their spirit-horses. My wolf-guide shall never run at my side again. I have chosen my path.

Most likely this girl shall join a fireside gathering of women all drinking kumis and cooing over the brats till the small ones fall asleep. But enough of this – dreaming of home will make me weak.

I must get inside before Lord Ishbal returns. These outer skins are pegged down hard, but this shall not be the first time I have sneaked into a tent. Shemi and I used to do so all the time. This is a large one, with many stuffed cushions and rich furs lining the walls. In the middle, a fire burns in an iron bowl, sending coils of smoke up around the poplar-trunk pole that holds the tent upright. Beside the fire, covered bowls are laid out on a red and white striped rug. Real food: cooked meat, yogurt, cheese and good thick milk. Tea with hot salty butter. I crouch behind the pile of skins, aching to fill my belly. This night, Hano served noodle broth and fried pickled cabbage. Ah, what I would not do for a mouthful of fire-charred meat and some salty tea—

But wait, I hear footfalls growing slowly louder – a man walking with the lopsided bow-legged saddle gait of the Horse Tribes. I watch as the tent-flap falls open, and a man stoops on his way in, followed by a blast of cold air. He straightens up, letting the flap fall back behind him, shutting out the night. It is Lord Ishbal. I recognize his hollow-cheeked face, dark with half-grown beard. If I did not already know his right hand was missing, I don’t think I would have spotted the lack of it straight away – he moves with swift grace, shrugging off his cloak and slinging it across a low wooden stool. If only I could see his spirit-horse I would know what manner of man he is, twisted with wickedness or longing to change for the better.